


Was

by Elektra3



Category: Aveyond
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Gen, Meta, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:26:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elektra3/pseuds/Elektra3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mel and Edward, years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Was

**Author's Note:**

> I called this "Was" because "In Which I Have Complicated Feelings About Mel/Edward" would have been too damn long. To wit: I think that they're great friends who love each other a lot. I think that it was wonderful for Mel to meet someone who adored her and would go to absurd lengths to make her happy; I think that it was wonderful for Edward to meet someone who'd always be brutally honest with him and also didn't want anything from him except for him to try to be less of a moron. I think that they're deeply lucky to have found each other.
> 
> I also think that their getting married is a _spectacularly_ awful idea that can only end in tears and/or Mel shanking someone with a shrimp fork.
> 
> Okay. Mini-author filibuster over.

Picture Mel stopping by Thais, years later.

Everything about her is ragged: Her robes, her now-gray hair, her worn and battered boots. Her face is deeply etched with scowl lines, though at the moment she's smirking faintly at the discreetly scandalized looks she's getting from passing courtiers. Once upon a time, she would have cared a great deal about what they thought of her.

It's no wonder they stare. Save for the mage's staff strapped to her back, she looks like some penniless vagabond. Hardly the kind of person who'd be ushered into the royal apartments, or who the king would come out to greet, grinning like a boy.

She does not curtsey. Of course, they're old friends, but she wouldn't have in any case. She's never seen the point of noble courtesies, much; never bothered to learn them.

(This is a lie. She used to stay up some nights, alone in that ridiculous suite his parents had flung at her like an insult, poring over a book on court etiquette she'd filched from the palace library and curtseying to her mirror. She could never quite keep the sneer off her face. She thought: I look like a moron. She thought: Who do you think you're kidding? She thought: Why am I marrying someone when I hate everything about his life?)

She says: “You're getting fat, Your Majesty.”

He laughs. It's true: He's getting a bit thick around the middle. Too many days sitting sedentary in Council, becoming the good king he never really wanted to be. He's tried to keep up with his fighting skills, but it's been years since he used his sword for anything but practice. Once upon a time he would have chafed at that, but he's learned to take satisfaction in a different form of heroism: Doing right by his people and his country. He doesn't miss the old days.

(This is a lie. He's not precisely _unhappy_ , but he doesn't like being king and never will. He likes honesty, directness, and problems that can be solved by facing them bravely and then hitting them really hard. He _hates_ politics. Economic theory frankly makes his head hurt, and international diplomacy is even worse. Sometimes he wishes that he'd just let Lydia keep the bloody throne, if she wanted it so much.)

He says: “Hello to you, too. Did you make any courtiers cry on your way in?”

She shrugs. “Nah, didn't feel like it. Stella around?”

“She's still at the hospital,” he says. Then, with a touch of pride: “They're opening a new wing next month.”

She laughs – not unkindly, for her. “Well, aren't you the proud papa.”

“Please, this is Stella's baby. I'm just... an interested onlooker.”

“Who just happens to be bankrolling the whole thing.”

“That too,” he agrees cheerfully. “How's Lars?”

“He's only ranted about wanting to murder all his students once this term. I'm worried he's coming down with something.”

“Maybe he's got a good group this year.”

She gives him a disgusted look. “Wow, fat and delusional. Remind me again who thought it was a good idea to make you king?”

“You, as I recall,” he says mildly.

“Well, it's not my fault that all the other contenders were even bigger morons than you. How's the brat?”

“Sorry to have missed you, probably. He's in Harburg right now.”

She smirks a bit. “Yeah? Should've told me. I know all the best places to catch rats, if he's feeling peckish.”

She can joke about it now. Once upon a time, her years on the streets were a major sore spot; now, she's years past the days of hunger and abandonment. She's a respected mage and sometime scholar, richer in coin and in friends than she ever thought she'd be, and secure in her position. She's no longer bitter about the past.

(This is a lie. She's not as angry as she used to be, but there's still a hard knot of rage deep down that's never quite gone away. She may be warm and well-fed now, but she still remembers the cold and hunger; still remembers the monsters who didn't have the decency to look inhuman. Sometimes she thinks back on the time she was on the verge of setting the whole world on fire just to see it burn, and it's not always with regret.)

He laughs. “Well, if you leave some recipes, I'll be sure to pass them on.”

He's always been a little fascinated by her life before she came to Thais. It was the second thing he liked about her: he'd never met anyone like her, ever. He'd wanted to know why she snapped at kindnesses, why she treated things like regular meals like a bizarre and exotic luxury, why she was always so ready to run. Who her people were, if she had any. What it would take to make her smile.

(It happened like this:

Midnight, long past, time for all good little princes to be in bed. It was nearly winter, the night air knife-sharp and freezing, but he barely felt the cold as he raced to catch up with her. He had to laugh: Here he was, trained all his life, and getting his arse kicked in a foot-race by a skinny girl who'd barely had a decent meal in her life. “H-hold up!” he'd finally wheezed, still laughing. And she looked back at him and grinned, all teeth and vicious joy, and he thought,

_Oh._ )

“Kill it 'til it's dead and then roast the little bastard,” she says. “Think you can remember that?”

“I'll write it down,” he promises.

She's never really understood what he finds so damned amazing about being poor. Must be a stupid-rich-boy thing – _apparently_ there's something really romantic about going cold and hungry and not knowing if the people you're working with will give you your share or knife you for it.

She still remembers how he came back to the inn after a day of playing at being a thief, all puffed up and laughing, like he'd had a grand day of fun. He hadn't understood why she was so annoyed with him. Even after she'd snarled, _“It's not a game, you stupid rich boy,”_ she could tell that he still didn't truly understand. She doesn't think he ever has.

He's her best friend, one of the best she's ever had. He's seen her at her weakest and her worst and loves her anyway. He'd die for her, and she'd do the same for him; and she will always, always love him. But sometimes – and she's not the praying sort – she wants to get down on her knees and thank every god she can think of that they never managed to get married.

(This is not a lie, but it is not the complete truth, either. This is the truth: She liked pretending that they could work. Love conquers all, and all that crap. She'd never been adored like that before, like the whole world hinged on her smile, and it was, it was – nice.

This is also the truth: She never really believed that it would last.)

“I think I might stay awhile,” she says abruptly. “Have you rented out my rooms yet?”

“Well, the treasury was getting a little low,” he says, deadpan, and then spoils it by laughing.

“Idiot,” she grumbles, but can't quite keep from smiling back.

“Oh, and try not to terrify too many courtiers at dinner tonight,” he says.

She smirks, standing. “No promises,” she says, and turns to go.

She's looking forward to dinner tonight. She'll see Stella again – it's been too long – and maybe horrify a courtier or two. She doesn't really do happy, but she's well enough for now. Everything turned out -

Not for the best. But all right. Things are all right.

(This is true.)


End file.
